The Last File SNX Files Crossover
by LCFC
Summary: The world is in trouble, the demon army is winning the war against humanity. Fox Mulder - alone now - goes in search of a man who is half-demon, half-human and humanities last hope.
1. Chapter 1

**Washington DC - 2009 **

Fox Mulder closed the file on his desk and leant back, stretching, his eyes sweeping through the tiny cupboard sized room that used to pass as his office.

He wondered, as he fired up his computer, how he could have possibly been so wrong, how he could have missed something so large and fundamental, how the world had changed so dramatically without him even knowing.

He didn't really expect anything to happen, so he wasn't particularly surprised when his screen stayed blank. He flicked off the monitor and got up, shrugging into his thick black coat and picking up his, now useless, FBI badge.

He guessed he'd have to go back to the old methods and use his feet to do the searching.

He bit his lip, looking round at his domain one last time.

Scully would have loved this.

Wyoming was hot and humid, the stench of death much stronger here than in some other cities.

Mulder knew where to look, but he also knew he had to be cautious. Demons were not something he knew much about, even after extensive research. All he did know is that they were dangerous, now more than ever, and that they could possess a man at the drop of the proverbial hat.

Mulder did not want to be one of those men.

He pulled the amulet down over his head and let it settle on his chest, glinting silver against the tee shirt he wore. He hoped that it would be ample protection, the English broad who had sold it too him had been reassuring enough, but Mulder knew nowadays, that 'Trust no one' was still a good mantra to have.

The smell of rotten eggs told him all he needed to know. He was certainly in the right place and, if he wasn't mistaken, the gate had been opened again. He moved cautiously into the cemetery, looking in dismay at the open graves, the ripped up stones. He wondered where the corpses had gone, then decided that he really didn't want to know.

**Then **

Mulder had been researching alien conspiracies when he first heard of the activity in Wyoming. He and Scully had gone down there, looking for one thing and had come back with a completely different view.

There had been no lost time, no circles of dead earth, and no sightings of 'little green men'. Instead, they had found an old mausoleum, burn marks around its door, the scent of sulphur strong in the air.

There had been two dead bodies at the scene.

One, bizarrely, was a hospital janitor from California, reported missing by his family over nine months before. The other, a soldier named Jake, last seen with his battalion, reported AWOL. Both men had been shot, one in the shoulder, the other hit several times in the back.

A harried field agent called Hendrickson had been running the operation and he was in no doubt who was responsible for the chaos. A pair of brother's, he had explained to Mulder, his hands twisting the handle of his gun, teeth clenched in frustration. A pair of murdering, psychopathic brothers; whom Hendrickson had been tailing for months.

**Now**

Mulder shook his head, bringing his thoughts back to the present. He leant forward and touched the old building, feeling how cold it was, despite the heat of the day. There was a ring of salt around it and several sigils drawn, roughly, on its walls. Mulder looked closer, trying to interpret the sigils and failing miserably.

How he missed Scully and her research skills.

**Then**

The demons had been insidious and sneaky right from the start. They had been prisoners for a long time and, having managed to crawl out of hell, they couldn't wait to make mischief.

People were possessed at alarming rates, bodies taken over randomly, an army beginning to form, an army looking for a leader.

Mulder knew a few things and, shit, he had seen a few things in his life, but this, this was different. He and Scully would spend hours in diners, pouring over biblical texts, looking for signs, looking for a way to stop these things, things he had believed only existed in stories. No one seemed to know what was happening and no one seemed to know how to stop it.

But someone was having a damn good try.

Five or six bodies found burnt, in a pit, outside an abandoned farmhouse.

The bodies of a priest and a bar tender, shot through the head and left in the middle of a 'devil's trap' in a cellar.

A notorious vampire hunter found headless at the scene of a murder, barbed wire wrapped around his throat.

Hendrickson and several others, including the infamous Winchester brothers. Blown up in a freak accident in a small town police station.

Through his research and through an army of contacts, including the lone gunmen, he found out about a society of hunters, people who already knew that this sort of thing existed and also knew how to stamp it out.

This time, though, even they had been outnumbered.

**Now**

A cough, dry and harsh, made Mulder turn around, hand on the gun that was always tucked in his jean pocket, the other clutched around the amulet at his throat.

The man that stood behind him could not have been described as threatening exactly. He was small, stocky, a beard covering most of his chin, a baseball cap pulled down over his eyes.

Despite this, there was something about him that was dangerous, a hidden strength, a glint in his eye that said i'Just try me/i.

"Christo," Mulder still felt foolish when saying it, despite the fact that it had saved him more times than he cared to remember.

The man might have smiled; it was hard to tell. He coughed again and nodded, his eyes remaining bright.

"Christo," he echoed and then he held out his hand, grubby and callused, to Mulder.

"Bobby," he said, "Bobby Singer, you'd better come with me, he's waiting for you."

The house was large and sprawling; smack bang in the middle of a junkyard, old cars and bits of machinery scattered everywhere. The whole building was ringed with salt, charms and amulets hanging from every conceivable part. Two fierce looking black dogs pulled back their considerable jaws and began to bark, loud and threatening.

"Nice place you have here," said Mulder.

He didn't know what to expect; he had heard, as everyone had these days, of the 'boy king', the man who was supposed to lead the demon army. The man who was, allegedly, half demon, half-human. The man, who Lilith wanted to hang up to dry, whose head, Lilith wanted on a silver platter.

This man was a greater threat to her and all of her minions, a greater threat than any other living thing.

And Mulder was about to meet him.

Inside the house was as cluttered and as protected as the outside. Two more dogs lay in the hearth, looking up, eyes following, as Mulder moved through the sitting room into the kitchen.

The man sat at an old oak table, head bent over a laptop whose screen was as black and as empty as Mulder's old computer. His fingers were lightly tapping on the keys and his eyes were fixed on some distant point, gazing out of the window as if he were watching, waiting for something.

He looked up as Mulder entered and the FBI man felt a shudder of shock go through him.

Despite the fact that he was huge, broad shouldered and long limbed, the man before him was barely more than a boy.

He had long chestnut hair that hung around his shoulders in unruly curls, his cheekbones were high and prominent, emphasising tip-tilted cat-like hazel eyes. There were dimples in his cheeks and a cleft in his chin. He was clean-shaven, not a hint of stubble and his whole demeanour was one of lost innocence.

"Hello Mr Mulder," he said, in a soft, slightly southern accent, his voice deeper and more gravely than Mulder would have imagined, "would you like a beer?"

Mulder nodded, feeling strangely anti-climatic, holding his breath as if he were waiting for something to happen.

After all, he was face to face with the alleged Anti-Christ and, if he had been expecting anything, it certainly hadn't been a beer.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Reborn

Part Two

**The Antichrist **

Mulder tipped back his beer and let it trickle, welcoming and cold, down his dry throat.

He sat at the table now, opposite the younger man, who didn't appear to be drinking and, instead, was picking the label on the bottle, shredding it, convulsively.

"I'm not what you expected am I?" soft, hazel eyes looked up at Mulder and he was forced to shrug, not wanting to give anything away, "I'm not what they say either," he concluded.

"You're not the Anti-Christ? Not half-demon?" Mulder took another swallow of his beer, "then all the stories are wrong."

"I have demon blood in me," the younger man said, ripping another shred of label and pushing it into the table with his finger, "the demon fed it to me when I was six months old, before it killed my mother. It gave me special abilities – sure – but it doesn't make me anything more than human."

"If you say so," Mulder shrugged, turning to stare out of the window. It was turning chilly now, darkness descending on them. He was aware that his car was still by the cemetery, that all his clothes, his weapons, his research were trapped in the trunk. He felt dirty, smelly, and so tired. He could hear his stomach grumble and he realised it must have been hours since his last meal.

"Bobby has gone to get your car. He'll tow it back behind his truck. You can shower or bath if you like and then I'll make you something to eat. We have burgers, sausage or salad, anything you want."

"Jesus – did you just read my mind?" Mulder's eyes lifted and he held the other man's gaze. A flush spread across that fine-boned face and his, rather large, ears turned a little red.

"Sam – call me Sam," the flippant reply belied the man's solemn expression, "and, yeah, I can sometimes read minds. Look Mr Mulder, I don't want these powers, but I have them and, sometimes, I use them."

"Ok, Sam, but drop the Mr, most people, when they called me anything, used to call me Mulder."

"Mulder," Sam smiled, dimples deepening in his cheeks, "so – how did you find me?"

"I have my sources," Mulder shrugged, "and your FBI file isn't exactly thin," he leant over so that his face was closer to Sam's "so," he said, "is it true? Are you really mankind's last hope?"

**Then**

No one had known what to do; people were being possessed at an alarming rate and only a few people really understood what was happening.

Shooting or stabbing had no affect, all that it served to do was to kill the host body, the demon inside just kept on going. Mulder had seen virtually rotting corpses walking down the street, eyelids unable to close over the deep black eyes. He had smelt death, tasted it and, despite the things he had seen, it sickened and terrified him.

Only exorcisms worked and priests were in high demand. Latin rituals became commonplace and devil's traps were drawn on every conceivable surface. Mulder found himself spending hours on research, leaving Scully to deal with the bodies of the dead, leaving Scully to deal with those souls who had not been strong enough to handle their possession.

One day, when Walter Skinner looked at him with a wicked smile and cold, black eyes, he realised that the demons were winning and he took Scully and high-tailed it out of Washington, determined to find someone who knew the truth and who would be prepared to help them.

**Now **

Mulder yawned; he pushed away his plate feeling replete but exhausted. Sam frowned, biting his lower lip, "Bobby has a spare room in the loft – you are welcome to use it – I guess you have a long drive home in the morning."

Mulder shrugged, he got up and took his plate over to the sink, dropping it into the bowl with a crash, "Now I'm here – I don't intend leaving until you come with me. They said you were our only hope Sam; they said that you would help me."

"How did you find me?" Sam opened one of the cupboards and took out a pile of fresh smelling linen, "I've been hiding here since – well for a while now – and no one – has gotten anywhere near."

"I have my sources," Mulder grinned, but his eyes were shrewd, "ever hear of the Lone Gunmen?"

"Should I?"

"Guy called Ash – faked his own death apparently – got in touch with them a few months ago – said he knew where mankind's last hope was – they passed the tip on to me – so I got in touch with one Mr Robert Singer – whose own FBI file isn't that thin either."

"I'm not anyone's last hope and I'm not fighting anymore," Sam was pale, his eyes distant and sad, "you might as well go home Mulder."

"The demons are winning – the end of the world is getting closer by the day. Humanity is dying, there is the stench of death in the streets and no one cares. I thought that the Government were our biggest threat, our biggest enemy – I was so fucking wrong."

Sam paused for a moment, hands full of linen.

"My brother went to hell for me, he sold his soul for me and I couldn't save him – my brother is in hell now, Mulder, burning there for me. I've lost the only reason I had for fighting."

"We've all lost someone Sam," Mulder took the linen from Sam and leaned in, his voice low, "we all have reasons to give up – to just stop – but we have to keep fighting – it is what makes us human – it is what keeps us from going under."

**Then **

When Scully was possessed, Mulder didn't know what to do. He tried all the exorcism rituals he had learnt, tried holy water and amulets, but nothing worked.

He had her tied to a chair, her red hair dark with sweat, those soft green eyes as hard as jade. Whoever – whatever had her was the strongest demon he had come across and he stood at the edge of the devil's trap, wondering what his life had come to.

"They have sent me back twice and I keep on coming," the voice was Dana's, yet it sounded so different, so alien, "I have the upper hand now – we are in the ascendancy and Dean Winchester's smug mouth is sewn shut, he is burning – burning up in hell – and when you find his brother – you can tell him that much."

"How did you know I was looking for him?" Mulder felt sick, pacing around the trap like a restless lion, "who are you?"

"my friends call me Meg," the laugh was sultry, evil, "and I am here to watch you all die – I will succeed where my father failed and I will live to see both Winchester's burn – I will see them both burn in hell – tell them that."

When she moved, he saw it, the bright red mark on Dana's arm. He had researched enough to recognise a binding link and he bit his lip, knowing now what he must do.

The brand was hot enough to burn through the skin and the stench of burning filled the air. Dana screamed as he began to chant the ritual again and, this time, the black smoke poured from her body, up and away, into the putrid night.

Dana died in his arms, listening to the words, "I love you," come unbidden from his lips.

He salted and burnt her corpse before he left and he threw his badges onto the fire.

Now he was ready for the fight.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Title: Reborn

**Morning **

Mulder wakes to the smell of cooking. Sausage, onion and eggs, he thinks, his stomach growling.lj-cut text"Read more"

He wonders if he might be able to eat before he is sent on his way; he is pretty sure that he isn't going to get anywhere with Sam Winchester.

He washes in tepid water and runs his fingers though his hair. It's longer than it used to be, but who really cares. The FBI used to insist on buzz cuts but now there is no one to tell him what to do.

He might have wanted that once but now it just feels hollow and empty and he feels as if he as lost his purpose in life.

He remembers the cemetery and the smell of death, he remembers the fact that someone had opened the gate again and his brain kicks in. Shaking his head, he shoulders into his shirt and goes downstairs looking for Sam.

The man he called Robert Singer and who Sam calls Bobby, is sitting at the kitchen table, eating eggs, some of them already caught in his beard. There is no sign of Sam and Mulder sits down, helping himself to bread and a plate, Bobby watching him, eyes narrowed.

"He opened the gate – didn't he?" Mulder chews on the bread, not expecting a reply. Bobby coughs, scoops more eggs into his mouth and somewhere outside a dog barks.

Sam comes in through the front door; he is sweating and the vest that he wears is soaked through. His bangs hang in his face and Mulder can't see his eyes as he repeats his question.

"You opened the gate?"

Sam opens the fridge and takes a slug of orange juice. He slumps down at the table, opposite Bobby and next to Mulder.

"Sam…" Mulder feels frustration warring with something else, something like anger.

"Yeah – fuck you – I opened the gate," for the first time since they met yesterday, Mulder hears the fight in Sam's voice, gets an impression of the man he might have once been, "I've opened it a few times – what is it to you?"

"Do you let more demons out?" Mulder's voice goes down a pitch, the tone he used to use for questioning suspects or innocent bystanders who got in the way, "isn't humanity in enough trouble for you?"

"I…" Sam shrugs and takes another swallow of juice. He stares at Mulder as if he is trying to read his mind, "he never comes," he says, suddenly, unexpectedly, not really expecting a response, "I've tried rituals, spells, everything I can – but he never comes."

"Your brother?" Mulder has read a lot about the infamous Dean Winchester but he wants to know more, wants to know the truth.

Sam nods and Mulder is sure he sees something wet drop onto the surface of the table. Bobby coughs and gets to his feet, mumbling something about the dogs.

"Tell me about him,"

"Dean" Sam says the name on a breath, his voice harsh and hoarse and so full of pain that Mulder thinks it must hurt to say it, "Dean was all I had left – he was – he was everything to me – my big brother, my friend, my…"

He trails off for a moment and Mulder wonders what he was going to say. Sam shudders for a moment and shakes his head, "he shoulda just let me stay dead – what's dead should stay dead –right?"

"Never has in my line of work," Mulder pours himself a cup of coffee and leans back on the chair, he is aware that he sounds flippant but Sam snorts a little, brushing his bangs back so Mulder can see his face.

"You – you investigated the paranormal – right?" Sam seems to know a little about him and Mulder is convinced the boy is reading his mind.

"I did and I saw all sorts of weird and wonderful things," Mulder drinks the coffee down and pours himself some more, "but nothing like this – like how it is now."

"Dean wasn't what they said," Sam sounds lost, "Hendrickson knew – he saw – he saw it all – Dean never killed any thing that didn't deserve to die – he – he only wanted to protect – he doesn't deserve to be in hell."

"None of us do," Mulder bent forward, trying to gauge Sam's mood, knowing that, at this moment, it was important to say the right thing, "and that is why I'm here."

"I told you – I'm not interested," Sam stood up, abruptly, "why don't you leave me alone?"

"Dean wouldn't want this for you," Mulder is aware he is trampling on egg shells in hob-nailed boots, but he ploughs on anyway, "he wouldn't want you to give up – would he?"

The movement is so fast that it is almost imperceptible; suddenly Mulder is pinned to the wall of the cabin, feet off the ground, hands so tight around his throat that he loses the power to breathe. Cold eyes stare into his and, in the morning sunlight; they look sickly yellow in colour.

"How the fuck do you know what my brother would or wouldn't want – he fucking wouldn't want to be in hell either – but he is."

"Sam," Mulder manages to gasp out, "Sam…"

The change is instant. The hold on his neck ceases and he drops to the floor, crumpling in an inelegant heap on the tiles. Sam steps back, rubbing his eyes, a hitch in his breath.

"I'm sorry," he says, shuffling his feet and turning away, shoulders shaking.

"Look – Sam," Mulder sounds like he has been gargling knives, but he carries on regardless, "maybe if you can – maybe if we can – save humanity – we might be able to save Dean too."

"You think?" Sam sounds so old and worn that Mulder's heart clenches in his chest and he is moved, despite himself, wondering when it was he lost his cynical view on life.

"I can help you," Mulder says, holding his breath, "I'm not your brother and you're certainly no Scully – but we can work together on this – there is a solution and I know what it is – I just need someone to help me do this."

Sam turns around, eyes bright, cheeks smeared with water he hasn't even tried to hide. For a moment he is silent and Mulder wonders if this is it, if he is going to hell with the world, if all is lost.

Sam swallows, looking into the middle distance, and Mulder knows he is communing with Dean in some way, even if it is just in his mind.

"Ok," Sam leans heavily against the table, but there is a small smile on his face and it makes something blossom in Mulder's chest, "ok – let's talk about it."

Mulder lets the blossom grow and he smiles back, recognising the feeling.

It is hope.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

Title: Reborn

**Possession **

Mulder ran his hand over the top of the sleek, black vehicle, feeling a strange thrill of excitement. "This is one hot car," he said, feeling almost embarrassed at his own words.

"It was my brothers," Sam let his own fingers trail across the Impala's hood, wiping at the grimy windows, "if he saw it now – he would so kick my ass."

"You don't drive it?"

"Haven't left Bobby's for a while now, I have spent the last year hiding up here. The only time I've actually gone anywhere is to try and open the gate."

"What are you hiding from?"

Sam smiled, sadly and Mulder saw the infinite sadness in the boy's hooded gaze. He wiped a hand across his face, blinking once or twice and then he looked back at Mulder, his voice steady.

"Hunters – demons – the FBI," at the last word, Sam smiled a little wider, his head on one side, "there are so many people out there who want a piece of my ass, Mulder, you don't even know."

"No one has ever found you?"

"Not until yesterday," Sam frowned, "how did you find me?"

"I have my sources," Mulder grinned, rubbing his hands through his own hair. It felt dirty, long and uncomfortable around his neck. He wiped his fingers down his own tee shirt and longed for a shower and a long, cold beer.

"I heard about you," Sam said, suddenly, unexpectedly. "Back when we were on the road. People thought you were mad – they called you spooky right?"

"Right," Mulder could remember those days clearly. He had taken them as a personal challenge and he had kinda enjoyed the spooky tag and the looks of disgust and disbelief he had received from his fellow agents. He remembered how hard it had been to convince Scully about many of his cases and he remembered how he had felt when he found out that his conspiracy theories had been way off.

"You said you had a solution – an idea," Sam sat down on the dusty floor and leant back against the Impala, stretching out his long legs. Mulder flopped beside him, tipping back his chin and letting the sunlight hit his face, "care to tell me what it is."

"Lilith doesn't have all the demons under her command," Mulder stated, blandly, knowing that Sam was fully aware of this fact, "there are a substantial number who are waiting for another leader – their messiah if you will – and those demons are mighty pissed at Lilith – because she isn't following the 'master plan'.

It wouldn't take much to pit demon against demon – a sort of civil war if you like – we can't destroy them, but they sure as hell can destroy themselves."

Sam was silent and Mulder sat back, eyes closed, listening to the distant barking of dogs, the soft, alien sound of birdsong. He could smell sulphur and death in the air and he wished that the flowers would bloom again just so he could rid his nostrils of the putrid stench of defeat.

"You are the leader they are waiting for," Mulder said, not bothering to wrap it up in a fine package, "you are the one who should be leading them – not Lilith."

"I told you – I'm not the fucking anti-Christ," Sam stood up, pacing suddenly, looking like a caged animal, nervous and skittish, "have you any idea how hard I have had to fight not to let those switches flick on in my brain – have you any idea how much it hurts – how much it burns. The nightmares – the pain – if it weren't for – for – for the distant hope that I might save Dean – I would have put the colt to my head months ago and fucking pulled the trigger."

"Sam…"

"I have lost so much – I'm not going to lose my humanity."

"I'm not suggesting that you do," Mulder got up and placed his hand, lightly, on Sam's shaking shoulder, "all I'm suggesting is that you say you are going to."

"You mean pretend to be the Anti-Christ – fucking hell – have you any idea what you are suggesting."

"Demons can be fooled you know – they can be trapped and exorcised and they can be tricked – all you have to do is call them to you – tell them you want Lilith and her army dead – and – all hell breaks loose."

"Are you high?" Sam snapped, his eyes suddenly bright and angry, "you are a fucking amateur when it comes to demons aren't you? Trick them? We are talking something big here – something really big."

"What if your brother was here to help?"

Sam stopped pacing and stared at the FBI man, his teeth clenched, and the fire burning in his eyes again.

"You had better have something real good to say," he ground out and Mulder grinned, relief flooding through him.

"I'll get the book," he said.

Sam held the large, dusty tome in his hands and stared at it, awed. Behind him, Bobby let out a gasp and almost fell to his knees. Mulder watched them both, eyes shrewd.

"Do you know what you have here?" Sam said, his fingers playing across the surface almost reverently, "this thing is so powerful no one even dares speak its name – how the hell…how the hell did you get hold of it?"

"I did a job for someone – long time back – they owed me – I called in the debt," Mulder shrugged, "like I said – I have my sources."

"Must have been some job," Bobby gasped out and Mulder grinned.

"Kidnapped child," Mulder shuddered at the memory, "kept for human sacrifice to some sort of pagan God – FBI thought it was some sort of paedophile ring and put me on the case – they were never any wiser – but the mom – a white witch – she was pretty grateful – she offered me her body – but I took this instead."

Sam stared at the book in his hand and lay it down on Bobby's table.

"So – what are you going to use it for?"

"There's a spell – a ritual really – inviting demon possession – we can use it – to summon up your brother."

"Shit," Bobby's voice was rough, "you offering yourself up here Mr Mulder?"

"Yes, yes I am." Mulder kept his eyes on Sam could see the light of hope in the younger man's gaze; see the desperation in every movement he made.

"You can't do it," Sam burst out, pacing again, "I've been possessed Mulder and, believe me, it isn't a very pleasant experience, you – it – you can't do it."

"It'll be Dean I'm inviting in," Mulder stated, "your brother."

"Who has been in hell for over a year – God knows what state he is in now," Sam sounded broken.

"Didn't stop you from trying to open the gate though – did it?" Mulder said, playing his last ace card and hoping it would be enough, "come on Sam – you said you wanted your brother back – I'm not him – but I could be."

Sam bit his lip, glanced at Bobby and nodded slowly.

"I guess there isn't much else left to lose," he said, biting his lower lip hard, "let's do it."

Mulder lay on the table; bare chested, candles burning all around him, the scent of wax and smoke thick in his nostrils.

There was a devil's trap drawn around the table and several charms hanging over him. Sam bent down and made a slight indentation in the trap, just enough to let a demon through, but small enough to draw in again in emergencies.

Bobby had the book open on his knee and bent down over it, his cap obscuring his face. Mulder heard him start the chant, the words in a language alien to him, jumbling up in his head.

He was terrified; wondering what had possessed him to do this. When had he become such a martyr? It wasn't as if he owed the world anything.

Sam leant forward, silver knife glittering in the candlelight. His face was pale, the skin stretched thin across harsh bones. He mumbled something that sounded like 'sorry' and then he pricked the knife against Mulder's skin, digging into his flesh, carving out the symbol needed.

Mulder's skin burnt in agony and he bit his lip to stop from crying out. He closed his eyes for a moment and when he opened them again, the whole room seemed enveloped in darkness. He opened his mouth to scream and the darkness moved inwards, pressing against his lips, pouring into him, his whole body going hot, and cold. His legs were shaking and his stomach rolled and then he felt some sort of explosion that came from the inside of him and his mind whirled away into nothingness.

His eyes opened, but he knew, immediately, that he hadn't opened them.

It was a weird feeling; he mind was still alert, still working, but his body refused to obey it. It felt as if he were watching himself from a distance, watching his own feet twitch, his own hands come up and brush against his face. He couldn't feel a thing, like a coma patient or someone suffering from severe paralysis, he had totally lost control of himself.

His legs swung round and landed on the floor and he wobbled to his feet. He heard Sam say something, his voice laced with concern, but he didn't answer. His body moved forward and he was looking through his own eyes, but he knew it wasn't just him who was using them. He was just a passenger; someone else was in the driving seat.

His body moved over to the bathroom, to the mirror that hung over the sink. He was aware of Sam behind him, of Bobby in the background, clutching the colt. He peered forward and saw his own face looking back at him. There was an expression there that he had never seen before and his eyes widened hands going up to his face again, stroking curiously.

"Son of a bitch," his own voice, but the inflection was all wrong, "I'm a fucking G-Man."

Behind him, he heard Sam gasp and one word forced itself through his lips.

"Dean?"

TBC


End file.
